


abstraho 3 traxi, tractus

by koshitsu_kamira



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koshitsu_kamira/pseuds/koshitsu_kamira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is a state of being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	abstraho 3 traxi, tractus

Jongin committed the word ‘home’ into his fledgeling memory when he was all, but a mere toddler sucking on his pacifier and sitting idly in a sleek stroller designed for busy cities just like Seoul, capital of South Korea. The notion came to him gradually, usually shrouded in a jumble of ‘let’s’, ‘late’ and ‘go’, delivered by the lilting music of vowels and consonants, a piacere or agitato. It was a concept associated with the vague feeling of urgency, and more often the simplicity of happiness, but also evoked a scenery of powder blue walls, glowing stars on the ceiling and soft carpet in delicate ivory. As an infant home was a warm and soft place, where words were hushed whispers or gentle lullabies, where one breathed in affection and peace with every soft pant.

Kindergarten became obligatory at the age of three, when Jongin learned he was only _one_ of the many children, unlike at home, where _only_ he mattered the most, and ruled absolute over his kingdom of soft toys, colorful blocks and tiny cars. There he could be anyone regardless of others’ opinions and loud wants, free of chiding words or admonishments, he could choose to be a dauntless knight or an arcane hero, and no one would force him to take a single role. It was a place which allowed him to exist in plural form, since no border was drawn, and no options were withdrawn. Home was the infinite universe that consisted overlapping dimensions, boundless realms and incalculable possibilities - it was supreme and everlasting.

Crop had been harvested six times already by the time Jongin began to make sense of ink on a sheet of paper, that wasn’t summation, subtraction, division or multiplication, and learned how notes, parallel lines and monochrome keys were woven together to compose the intricate tapestry known as music. He immersed himself in etudes, chaconnes and nocturnes, found distilled joy in the resonance of piano wires, let his spirit find fulfilling rest among duple and triple meter. When his body finally threatened to shut down, and the world turned into an aquarelle colored in deep pastels before his eyes, forlornly he decided to leave for home to get dinner and catch some sleep.

Middle school was characterized by feeling strangely bereft and delicate, being aware of fragile bones, tender skin and flimsy muscles - the aftereffects of an unkind growth spurt. There was much to learn other than prescribed curriculum or new names and faces, ungainly habits and charming quirks. At that period the need to expand, flourish in novel fashions was reaching unbearable levels: peer competitiveness wasn’t only the privilege of the academically outstanding students, the phenomenon spread to encompass social interactions and mundane stages in life. For Jongin the surrounding atmosphere took on a noxious aspect, he felt suffocated, constantly struggling between  corformance and deviancy, fighting norms and embracing them all at once. Similarly, he vacillated whether to follow printed instructions or improvise wildly, inserting ad-libs irregularly, and wondered if he was better off as the poster child or as the frenetic genius. Despite how uncertain he perceived himself, he couldn’t help but always experience tranquility, safety and contentment under his mentor’s watchful eyes and sure guidance delivered in clear tenor, all trickling relentlessly through his senses, like fresh spring water down the parched throat of a lost wanderer. Jongin wished for the ability to either freeze time or play endlessly, so that he never had to leave, but not the carefully soundproofed practice room, nor the grand piano standing in the corner - furtively he began to question if home truly meant a place.

Time flowed effortlessly around him as if he was wading through a creek barefoot and upstream, stumbling on smooth pebbles, using a thick tree branch to keep himself over the waterline. Without realizing, spring returned once again, bringing on the scent of blooming flowers and freshly published books, the amalgamation of crisp breeze, stuffy air and low hanging clouds. Jongin read, wrote, answered questions, solved problems and played the afternoons and evenings away in a third floor music room while his scalp tingled, his cheek colored, and his heart beat uneven tattoos against his ribcage. He was underwater, helpless to resist the flood of tenderness or avoid close attachment, so he decided to dive deeper and explore, feel the slow burn of his lungs and prayed to never reach the bottom of the ocean.

Actually, Jongin hadn’t had a chance to even take a peek at the seabed since he was pulled to the surface ahead of time, and he was still soaked to the bones, salt clinging to his hair, the taste of brine lingering on his tongue, when abruptly he was shipped to another continent. After all, he was fortunate enough to be amongst the 7% of the accepted applicants to The Juilliard School, performing arts conservatory. As a Piano major in the Bachelor of Music program he was required to attend complimentary subjects of music departmental studies and liberal arts such as Ethics - Conscience and the Good Life or Society, Politics, and Culture. All classes that relied heavily on student discussion, something which Jongin was distinctly unaccustomed to, having been socialized in the conventional school system of South Korea, where pupils were promoted for mutely listening and giving textbook answers in and outside of classrooms. He wasn’t alone in his quest to learn the unusual skill of speaking one’s mind without any fear - a dancer of daydreaming eyes was joining the endeavors likewise, despite often trailing off mid-sentence or throwing off others with generally odd, but charming comments.

In spite of stuttering and jumbling verbs, nouns and adjectives, misplacing predicate or subjects, an unlikely friendship bloomed between the two aspiring artists - they found that what they weren’t capable of conveying with words, the quality of their gazes, the quirks of their lips, the slight frowns which pulled their eyebrows together revealed more than originally intended. For such fearsome unveiling that exposed their vulnerabilities, invited barbs and thorns, they transcended worldly barriers, irrational trepidation, thus the tiny seedling of accord took root, then sprang a rare stalk of fuchsia, which burst into flowers came springtime. Their intimate relationship was a curious bond in outsiders’ perspective, since exchanging honeyed words or perpetually breathing down on each other’s neck had never meant comfort for either of them - instead candid conversations after Ear Training or Ballet Technique sessions were much preferred.

Jongin was lulled by the natural rhythm of life whilst living on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, the vibrant pulse echoing in his daily routine as a staccato motive, short and detached, but also heartfelt and genuine, all in all loveable. Rejuvenation was infused in each passing moment, their brilliancy staying definite in his recollection - most distinct were the pictures of marigold and cosmo blossoms twisting, then whirling in the mild afternoon breeze. The same memory of chaînés, fouettés and pirouettes - as he later learned the proper terminology through staring tea rose lips forming the words - kept the creeping homesickness at bay, anchored him, a manchild still, who had lost his way to adulthood semi-permanently. Being adrift didn’t imply carelessness or the lack of direction, it simply allowed uncertainty to be featured as an independent variant, left room for the growth and development of personality, interests. Jongin thrived healthily in the readily shifting environment, overcoming obstacles, standing up after painful falls and experiencing the effervescent glory of success equally. He never wished to be at the top of the world anymore, where loneliness was an inevitable condition and could be heartrendingly fatal for someone who had learned to cherish and treasure a stranger. A guest that was bound to leave regardless of cordial hospitality or vows of forevermore, his departure preordained, an inexorable happening, hence nearly painless regarding the aftereffects. The flashbacks of October didn’t diminish, its bright glow remaining sharp and dramatic, the mellow heat lingering on his skin, soothing frayed nerves and trembling senses.  

The trip to Budapest was born out of an impulse, justified by an exclusive invitation for the exhibition of the Bogányi piano, an instrument promising a “sound beyond time” by a particular fusion involving over fifty modifications and carbon composite, the main soundboard material. Jongin was decidedly intrigued per se, thrilled to hear in person whether an allegro string of notes would sound clear and exact, rather than the dull and flat tone he oftentimes encountered while giving concerts or recitals. Disregarding his enthusiasm to get acquainted with the “human” clavier, he had no rational excuse for booking a flight ticket ten days ahead of the event in question, without his management’s explicit knowledge. Truth to be told, exhaustion was all he felt, weariness holding him a prisoner, and time was solely a prolonged version of a bleak present he desperately needed to escape, yet no secure haven was in his sight. Burning out emerged as a viable possibility, a conceivable alternative of his future, one that he frightfully fought to evade - after all his love and passion for music stayed untouched, the placid joy he found in playing still buoying him on the desolate stage. However, solitude wasn’t purely a nightmare easy to dispel or banish without a lasting trace, it persistently accompanied him to performances and charity occasions around the globe, regardless the number of people attending or coming into direct contact with him. Even worse, the endless small talk and idle chatter enhanced his longing for distance, privacy, while he was drowning in terrible solitariness, sat companionless in a forsaken wasteland.

Visiting a small central-european country appeared to be an ideal change of scenery, offering plenty opportunities to appreciate fine architecture, delightful local cuisine, roam cobblestoned streets, and gawk at charming peculiarities. Jongin was also overjoyed to find an entire length of road comprising second-hand bookshops with old maps, vintage posters and antique tomes displayed in the storefront. Everyday life in Budapest felt almost bucolic, dreamlike in a sense that sang to his entire being, a sweet little melody soaking into the marrow of his bones, alleviating the heavy detachment which had been gradually smothering him. Upon the dense fog lifting off the meadow of his psyche, appreciating the finer texture of the air, the silkiness of a good wine dribbling past his taste buds became astoundingly simple and gratifying, like sunlight kissing his skin golden. The cacophonous tune of the Hungarian language wasn’t intimidating anymore, the paprika less sharp on his tongue, the pálinka stinging instead of burning, the formerly crude aspects which had made up Budapest beforehand languidly mellowing out as the days passed by.

Suite Bergamasque was floating elegantly above the dust particles in the concert hall, Prelude and Menuet shimmering on the dais, its sparkles fading as the beginnings of Claire de Lune gleamed in the dim ambience. The scintillating light revealed the hunched silhouette of lean shoulders clad in midnight suit jacket, silver glancing off the lustrous material, diffusing in waning glitters. The twinkling picture contrasted greatly with the somber and dreary atmosphere the artist projected, frail fingers skipping over monochrome keys in swift movements, face frozen in weary concentration, yet a lovely image of contrast, a fauvist portrait centering on paradoxes. Curved was the shape of his laughing eyes, the flushed apples of his cheek, the lines that were his hips melding into the verticals his legs constructed, but what made Jongin perplexed was the distinct rectangle shadowing a luminous smile. Soft details, the subtle pink his mouth had been bitten to, the pale redness around his iris, clashed with the solid planes of a wide, unblemished forehead, the firm arches his cheekbones fashioned under supple skin. Various colors of the spectrum wavered, then tapered off his neatly crafted jaw, amaranth and cerulean traced the path of his veins, cornsilk highlighted a strained tendon, deep champagne signaled the slight hollows where his neck receded to a valley forged by his ribcage. Apprehension, the fear of tainting a masterpiece with bitter grey, sullying splendid glory, kept Jongin within its bound - nervous to approach or understand the implications of the various shades obscured to his perception. The contact was imminent though, regardless of distance and elusion, Jongin shortly got his fingertips smudged with orange red, green blue and magenta paint, the pigments spreading, dissolving and permeating the core of his being, suffusing him with the essence of a rainbow, as if an unknown deity had cunningly replaced his living heart with a bewitched prism. Contrary to assumptions of brief encounters and short-term repercussions, the stains refused to fade, set ablaze, they burned with incandescent flames weathering time and distance, the perceived setbacks, fictitious dilemmas simply fuel to the compelling heat. The embers guarded him through journeys cloaked in shadows, pervaded by acrid cold and reigned by biting hailstorms, and they didn’t flicker out despite oppressing winds or high humidity levels. Jongin had to cross countless rivers, chains of mountains and far seas without the warmth dwindling away or the heat abating, in order to accept, then put faith in a pocketful of starlight serendipity had gifted to him.

Now, as he walked down marble paved routes, caught unfamiliar terms and expressions filtering out of cozy bistros and quaint cafés, breathed in the appetizing scent of melting mozzarella on fresh tomato sauce, perused calzones and strombolis arranged to be grid ready at demand, content pleasure filled him to the brim, a joyous hush tenderly enveloping him. Unhurried steps brought him to Piazza San Marco, the monumental square basking in the last rays of the twilight sun, and while he passed the columns of Procuratie, Saint Theodore’s and the lion’s pillars, purples drowsily seeped into the horizon over the lagoon. The pier was brimming with tourists who strolled at leisure, took pictures of the fascinating sunset or savored their gelato, but Jongin, overlooking the bustle, nonchalantly took a seat on the balustrade facing moored gondolas, including a single vaporetto traversing through the Canal Grande. Certainty subsided his emerging cynical notions, the sense of belonging anchored his restless mind, so that living, existing appeared less painful, gravity a bit lighter. Here he was just another unnamed, faceless visitor eventually leaving the city, carefree and untroubled like an ignorant child roaming fabled lands, searching for legendary treasure and stumbling upon immense bliss, a promise of eternal felicity in the end. Suddenly, a boyish smile spread over his face, his pensive gaze a rich chocolate brown that reflected the perishing beams of daylight, and the corners of his lips curled up charmingly - all was well.

He was at home.


End file.
